


will salvation bring

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunters, Angels, Gen, Guardian Angels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stigmata
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 12:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Huddled in a church attempting to sleep off a certifiablecurse, Dean comes face to face with the last creatures he ever expected to see—angels.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 124





	will salvation bring

It isn’t the fact that there aren’t any churches in the tristate area, no. It’s the fact that they’re all Protestants, and each and every one of them turns him away as if he contracted some plague that’s hellbent on destroying the congregation, and he’s there to deliver the end of times himself.

“We’re gonna find someone,” Sam tells him from the driver’s seat, knuckles white where he grips the steering wheel. Sweat beads from his temple, the temperature inside the car rising as the heater blows. “How’re your hands?”

Over the last five hours, Dean hasn’t stopped looking at his hands, his feet—and, once, back at their motel in Chattanooga, his forehead. He stole some extra linens from the laundry closet before anyone could catch him on their way out of town; now, he clutches the strips of white fabric tight, fingers squishing into sodden material. Red, is all he can think about—filthy, rusty, horrifying red. “Need to change them again,” Dean rasps. Something drips down his nose. He prays that it’s sweat.

His feet aren’t faring any better. The next town they stop it, they’ll have to find a motel, or hell, a hospital, with the amount of blood he’s lost. Lightheadedness keeps him from moving too much; even the slightest of turns makes him queasy, especially the further they make it into the backwoods of the South, mountains and valleys turning slowly into flatlands, filled with nothing but fields of cotton.

Any other day, and Dean would be in the driver’s seat, ignoring the world and blasting his music as loud as he could stand it. Any other day, and he wouldn’t be scouring every town within a hundred miles to find someone, anyone, to explain to him just why this is happening, and why instead of pain, he feels nothing at all.

Nights arrive sooner in the winter than either of them appreciate. At the most, they have eight hours of sunlight, maybe nine before the sun sets and bathes the roads in pitch black nothingness, with only headlights to guide their path. About an hour after what Dean coins _the incident_, they packed up and headed out in search of a faith healer, or a priest, or—something. Someone with answers.

All they got were shouted curses and threats of violence, and in one instance, a gun. So much for southern hospitality—So much for Christian love.

Around five, the sun begins to make its way past the horizon. In a failing search for shelter, Sam takes them off the beaten path in search of a small town with a motel, or even a campsite if need be. What they find are dirt roads and rickety old shacks, and what looks to be an old church with a steeple pointed high into the sky, its bell gone. A graveyard sits unattended off to the side, all of the plots deserted and overgrown with kudzu. The vine creeps its way up the side of the church, blocking out several stained glass windows.

Even if it’s not occupied, it’s shelter for the night. There’s food and water in the cooler if they need it, and blankets in the trunk. Now, more than ever, Dean wishes he had a pillow to call his own.

Pulling off the dirt stretch and into the grassy parking lot, Sam shuts off the engine and lets out a breath, dragging both hands through his hair. He needs a haircut—has for years, and won’t let Dean come near him with scissors. “You want me to carry you?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. He has more dignity than that, to be carried over the threshold by his brother, just because he might bleed all over the ground. He can walk just fine. Can and want, though, are two different things. “I just wanna sleep,” Dean confides, to Sam’s sigh. “I’m tired, Sammy.”

“I know,” Sam says, pats his knee. “Come on, I’ll help with the stuff.”

-+-

For an abandoned, decrepit church, the pews are strangely comfy, especially when Dean gathers up the cushions lining the altar and pads the bench with them. Towel underneath his head and tied into a knot around his temple, he lies there with Sam asleep on the other side of the pew, shrouded in a blanket and shivering in all of his clothes.

One of the windows, the massive stained glass monstrosity sitting at the head of the pulpit, has a crack running down the pane, with a hole right where the sun once was. Saint Michael overlooks the church with angels to the left and right of him, all clad in armor with their wings extended, looking ready to smite the wicked.

Figures, the one Catholic church they find is deserted. No one probably even remembers it’s here, and they found it by accident. No priest in sight, no Bibles left behind, no rosaries hidden in the pockets behind the benches.

Nothing but frigid air and an even more lonesome night with his brother. Really, he should’ve started crying hours ago, when he first realized he could see through his hands. With the sudden weight of the world bearing down, Dean closes his eyes and weeps, silently as he can muster, and hopes that his tears aren’t tinged red where they drip into his hairline.

They were supposed to head to Tulsa this morning. A vampire is wreaking havoc among the locals, and Dean and Sam were the first people Jo called, begging for their help. Instead, he’s here, bearing marks he never wanted, crying himself asleep in the middle of nowhere. He wants his mother—he wants someone there who understands, who can explain to him that to all things, there is a season. To tell him that it’ll be alright, that the wounds will fade in time.

No one comes. Dean clings to his blanket tighter and tries to sleep, the anguish in his heart too much to bear.

Morning arrives with little fanfare, aside from hushed whispers, both male and female and somewhere in between. Sam joins in, his words terse but measured, like he’s trying to lecture someone, or argue with them. Warm fingers caress his cheek, trailing up to his forehead, where the towel is soaked through once again. Convinced that the last day was a dream, Dean rests and lets the stranger hold him, whispering jagged words into his ear.

More hands join, these over his bare feet—someone holds his hands.

_What the fucking hell._

“What,” Dean complains and opens his eyes, only to find ten people staring down at him, all dressed in robes of burgundy and mauve and hunter green, with tawny or white wings to match. The outlier, a man with abysmal black wings, kneels by his head, cradling Dean’s cheek with a warm, firm hand.

Above it all, Sam looks down at him with his arms crossed, while a woman with brilliantly red curls wraps her hand around Sam’s bicep, her painted lips curled into a thin line. “When you called me, I didn’t think you had already brought the cavalry,” she says with an accent, thick enough that at first, Dean can’t understand her. Scottish, most likely. Not his strong suit.

“I didn’t call them,” Sam replies, a little louder now that Dean is looking at him, now that he doesn’t have to keep quiet. “They just kinda—showed up.”

“You smell like roses,” the black-winged angel says and sniffs him, deeply, like he might take Dean’s soul with it. “You bear Christ within you.”

“Am I pregnant?” Dean asks in all sincerity. Sam fights back a laugh—the angels surrounding them all giggle, feathers atwitter. “No, seriously—”

“Christ is in all humans,” another angel says, her navy wings expanding and tucking behind her back. She’s old enough to be a teenager, with brown curls and a round face. She clings to another angel with plump fingers, practically bouncing on her feet. “He likes you best.”

Great, just what he wants to hear. _Jesus loves me, yes I know_—Only literally. “Who are you people,” Dean says, leaving out the question. One minute awake, and he already wants to go back to sleep.

“I—called a witch,” Sam says. The red head at his side rolls her eyes. “I didn’t call them.”

“He thought I could help with your predicament,” the witch explains. She offers a hand, but pulls back when an angel steals Dean’s hands away. In fact, now that he realizes it, Sam is standing awfully far away, barely visible past wings. _Too many wings_. “Name’s Rowena, mister…”

“Dean,” Dean croaks, and makes to sit up. The black-winged angel helps him; the others advance, crowding him into the pew. “Please, can y’all just… Move, please, for God’s sakes—”

One of the angels gasps and crosses himself. If Dean were more coherent, he would laugh.

“We’d like some privacy,” the black-winged angel says to the flock, voice rough as a gravel road. His hand slips from Dean’s face down to his thigh, the only thing separating skin from skin being the blanket between them. Inexplicably, Dean warms. “Can you leave us for now?”

“Yes, commander,” a man says.

“Yes, Castiel,” the child echoes. In a flurry of wingbeats, all of the angels flee, leaving a collection of feathers behind on the wood floor.

In their absence, Dean finally lets out a breath, the fear dissolving in his gut. Tears well in his eyes; red drips from his hands onto the blanket. “We need to talk,” Castiel says, and turns his blue eyes away from Dean for the first time to look upon Sam and Rowena. For no reason he can think of, Dean misses him already.

-+-

A fire rages where the altar once rested, the spot now marked by large rocks formed into a circle. Idly, Sam breaks it apart and casts wooden fragments into the flames; smoke filters out through the hole in the stained glass. Despite the bandages, Dean holds his hands out and allows warmth to soak into his skin, all while Castiel tends to his feet, alternating between washing them with a cloth and… holding them, or whatever he’s doing.

Angels, Dean decides, are weird.

“So you’re saying,” Rowena says after a lull in their conversation, a blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders, “that this boy here was chosen by God? To do what?”

“I’m not privy to say,” Castiel murmurs. Turning, he pulls an urn from the presumable ether and wets a strip of bedding with it, and wipes down the sole of Dean’s foot. This time, it stings. “We’re not given details as to when or why a person is chosen to bear the stigmata, but we’re to attend them for the duration. It can be a stressful time, I’m sure you’re aware.”

“It’s been a hard day, for both of us,” Sam says. He finishes breaking down the altar and sits at Rowena’s side, tossing another plank in. “We got thrown out by the Baptists and the Pentecostals, and I called a few of the Catholic churches, but no one believed us without proof. I mean, people probably fake it enough, so they’ve just stopped… believing, I guess.”

_But it’s real_, Dean thinks, closing his eyes. _It’s happening to me, and I don’t know how to make it stop_.

“You hear stories,” Rowena drawls, “about people walking around, seeking praise for a few pinpricks. I’ve been alive for longer than I’ll say,” she stops to laugh. “But, in my time, I’ve never seen someone actually…”

“It’s incredibly rare,” Castiel says. Behind him, his wings unfold and settle back into place; Dean swears, in the early morning light, he sees white freckles dotting every feather. “All of humanity have the capacity to bear the mark of Christ, but only the holiest of holy can do so.” He swipes the rag over the top of Dean’s foot, the initial sting replaced with an eerie chill, one that sinks right down to the bone. No blood comes away this time—_Did it stop_? “Are you a man of religion, Dean?”

Swallowing, Dean weighs his options. Tell an angel to his face that he doesn’t believe in God’s grand plan, or lie and suffer in hellfire until the end of time? Either way, he doesn’t see an easy way out. “Not really,” he tries, and to his surprise, Castiel nods. “I’m—It’s complicated.”

“We’re hunters,” Sam interjects, thankfully. Castiel hums along, moving to Dean’s other foot. “Monsters are real, and there’re some crazy people out there.”

“And demons, to boot,” Rowena adds.

Sam nods. “And demons. But angels, God…”

“Since when has God cared about us?” Dean wishes he could take the words back, but they spill out before he can gain control of his tongue. “I mean, we’re orphans, man. Mom died from ‘mysterious circumstances,’ but I saw the thing that killed her, and it wasn’t human. Dad wasn’t exactly a saint either, and he just dropped us off on our uncle’s front porch and let him figure it out.”

“What he’s saying is, it’s hard after everything,” Sam says. His hands fidget in his lap; Rowena covers Sam’s knee, red nails scraping over denim. “I used to pray. When me and Dean would stay in a town for more than a few days at a time, I’d go to church and…”

This story, Dean hasn’t heard. Doesn’t know if he necessarily wants to hear it, either.

“I just wanted a sign, y’know? That we weren’t really alone.” Shuffling, Sam tucks his socked feet underneath his thighs. “Just feels weird now, seeing an angel.”

“Or ten of them,” Dean says.

Castiel makes a noise Dean could almost call laughter. Rather than reply, Castiel leaves the towel atop his knee and unwraps the towel from Dean’s head, revealing the unevenly spaced marks he knows are here. Blood sluggishly trickles free from one; Castiel wipes it away. “The other angels aren’t required to attend you,” he says and wets the cloth, dabbing the wounds with it. Dean hisses, but doesn’t turn away. “It’s been a long time, you understand, since we’ve felt His presence. It attracts whatever angel is closest at the time.”

“You being one of them?” Dean asks.

To that, Castiel nods, kneeing closer. The fabric of his robe crumples underneath him, rubbing dust into the black material. Though, the look on his face betrays his next statement, and desperately, Dean wants to know more. “I was close by,” he says, a lie if Dean has ever heard one. “I felt His presence in you.”

“Aren’t I the lucky one,” Dean says, low.

Castiel’s fingers grace his neck, below his ear—just barely, Dean suppresses a shiver, and closes his eyes.

-+-

They should really leave. Head to the next town, hustle a couple rounds of pool to top off their wallets, and sleep in a bed that isn’t made of stolen motel blankets and church pillows. Nothing ties them here.

Still, Dean stays, despite the ache in his stomach from blood loss and not enough food. He let Sam eat whatever they had left; Sam needs it more than him, anyway.

Around the fire, Sam sleeps curled up under a quilt, head resting atop one of the pillows. Rowena left an hour ago, supposedly to locate the closest town; Dean has a sneaking suspicion if she does, she won’t be coming back until the morning, and she’ll do so looking just as rested as ever. Dean, meanwhile, leans against Castiel’s side and stares into the fire, idly rubbing his hands together, sans bandages. With whatever was in that urn, Castiel cauterized the wounds, leaving behind slowly healing skin.

With time, Castiel said, the holes will mend. However long that takes, neither of them have a clue.

“I didn’t want to tell you in front of your brother,” Castiel whispers as he tosses another board into the fire. The pile dwindles fast, now down to the last few slats. “My being here wasn’t by happenstance. At one point, angels were tasked to watch over humans individually, but as your population grew, our numbers couldn’t keep up. All of us were called back to Heaven.”

“But not you,” Dean says. Castiel nods; he strokes Dean’s thigh over his blanket, fingertips pressing in. “Why’re you really here, Castiel?”

Castiel sighs. His wings slump, the one closest to Dean now cradled behind his back, feathers strewn across the floor. “Humans are still assigned guardians at birth. And I saw you, at the moment of yours, and I saw the light of your soul, how beloved you were. I couldn’t leave you there.”

Dean blinks, wipes his eye. “So you saw all of it, huh? My entire life, all the…”

“I’m not to interfere.” Warm, steady, Castiel rests his head atop Dean’s own, pressing his wing closer. “I shouldn’t even be here now, but you were… I couldn’t watch you cry. I couldn’t bear to feel your longing, knowing that you felt so alone, even with your family.”

Sniffling, Dean wrings his hands together. “Sorry I upset you,” he says, closing his eyes. “Didn’t really plan on becoming a stigmatist.”

“The world is cruel.” Castiel’s fingers slip between his own, and Dean has a second to be ashamed before Castiel holds him tight, warmth bleeding into his skin. “Your life has been fraught with pain and suffering, and you’ve longed for someone with whom you could share your pain with, but you never found them. You’ve been close, but not enough.”

“Read my mind, why don’t you?” Dean says, but not unkindly. Sighing, he pulls the blanket tighter with his free hand. “So what’m I supposed to do now, huh? I wanna… I just wanna get back on the road, not deal with whatever this is. And I know you think I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread—”

“Because you are.” Castiel pulls away, only far enough to take Dean’s chin between his thumb and index finger. “You might not understand it yet, but you’re destined for great things, Dean. Your hands will save countless lives, and you’ll dedicate your life to helping those who can’t help themselves. And I intend to stand by your side every step of the way.”

Dean’s heart pangs, breath lost. “You’re—You wanna stay?” he says, loud enough to wake Sam. Sam doesn’t, though, thankfully, instead letting out a soft snore. “I’m—I’m no good, Castiel—Cas. I’m not who you think I am, I’m just—”

“You’re human.” Castiel thumbs away a tear from Dean’s eye. “But you’re the human I chose. However you are, you’ll always be perfect.”

“Way to put me on a pedestal,” Dean says, but rests against Castiel’s shoulder anyway. “I’m gonna… I’ll disappoint you. I’m gonna screw up.”

“As will we all,” Castiel says. He hides a kiss in Dean’s hair and draws his wing in, draped across Dean’s lap. “Can I stay?”

_No_, Dean wants to say. _All I’ll do is fail you_, but he can’t shake the loneliness, the want in his bones. For a warm body, for someone to stand by his side. To love him, unconditionally. And somewhere in his soul, he knows that Castiel must feel the same. Angels are supposedly creatures of love—but do angels love one another the same? Are they alone?

Castiel feels lonely, Dean thinks. A creature of love, only to never be loved in return.

They could be a good team, two humans and an angel, crisscrossing the country. Desperately, Dean hopes he stays. “Yeah,” he decides, and squeezes Castiel’s hand. “Yeah. If you want.”

“I want to,” Castiel confirms. He kisses Dean again, this time to his temple, over where the holes have begun to close. “As long as you’ll have me.”

Exhausted, Dean nods. He drifts off shortly after, head pillowed atop Castiel’s thigh and a wing draped over him, an additional blanket to ward off the cold. And Castiel holds his hand through the night, a lifeline amidst the storm, keeping him tethered. Dragging him home.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to write lately so I locked myself in Cold Turkey for three hours and came up with this. ALSO, a while ago I wrote a fic about stigmata but it didn't turn out the way I liked. I think this came out more in line with what I wanted, so hopefully y'all like it too! It works as a great starter to a series, but I doubt I'll do anything with it, so let your imaginations run wild!
> 
> Title is from the Dwight Yoakam song, "Hold on to God".
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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